


Peckish

by 4mpersand



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, Food Issues, Gen, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4mpersand/pseuds/4mpersand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides that food is overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peckish

Point five four grams of elemental calcium; up twelve percent to accommodate the late-stage healing of the left capitate. Sherlock tapped out the contents of the scoopula into the widemouth beaker.

“Are you still at that, then?” John asked neutrally as he wandered over from the kitchen nursing his afternoon cuppa. He placed its mate next to Sherlock’s elbow and sat across from the detective.

“By that, are you referring to the meeting of my nutritional needs? I thought you, as a physician, could appreciate the precise requirements of the human body.”

“In an abstract sense yes, but Sherlock, what you’re doing is lunacy. People are biological entities that need to eat, especially when they’re repairing bones!”

“I do eat.”

“Nutrient paste doesn’t count!”

“Then clearly astronauts are devoid of nutrition and the pursuit of space research should be halted immediately.”

John’s mug had a less than pleasant meeting with the table. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!” He paused slightly, mopping up the spilled tea while he collected himself, and spoke in a metered tone. “I’m worried about you. For christ’s sake, you’re feeding your body with the contents of a chemistry lab! What if the concentration of something is off, or an amino acid is missing, or the chemicals interact to form a toxin? We have no way of knowing what will happen to you on this stuff!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “After our last case you stated that it was your preference for me to carry out less ‘noxious’” – his long fingers clearly indicating the implied quotation marks – “experiments in the flat, and as this quite clearly meets that requirement. I also have a partner who is a live-in physician to monitor my condition should the need arise, I am of sound mind to determine that my hypothesis is equally sound, and thus I do not harbour any hesitation towards beginning the first trial.”

“Which is what, pray tell, coming from the man that didn’t even know about the solar system a month ago?”

“That is irrelevant! Life-sustaining operations continue whether one is experiencing a gravitational force of near zero, or that at sea level – though, to be precise the majority of London, at twenty-four metres above sea level, is actually slightly less, and altitude sickness does impact the metabolization of -”

“Enough. You eat your astro-food, and I’ll be out getting takeaway. We’ll finish this discussion later.” John had pulled on his coat and was out the flat before Sherlock had formulated an appropriate response.

The fact that he didn’t immediately sulk or construct a scathing response in such a suitable time period was no longer perturbing to Sherlock. Had John’s response come from Mycroft, he would have had something acerbic prepared before the tip of his brother’s obnoxious umbrella had been lifted from the hardwood. Compromise, Sherlock surmised. Compromise, and sentiment. 

 

\-----

 

John simply couldn’t understand why Sherlock would choose to not eat proper food. Since Afghanistan, vegetables were worth their weight in gold as far as he was concerned. Vegetables in the rations provided on army tours were few and far between, and eating local often meant you were blowing out your own guts instead of your enemies’. Rat packs and other supplies were often delayed from the front, to the point that the guys joked that the Queen expected her troops to survive on chewing gum. 

That was why John kept their fruit bowl full of apples - apples that he had, on occasion, seen Sherlock pinch while on a case. He’d have tried withholding sex or nicotine patches, but since the frequency of cases had picked up recently, it would have been a fruitless endeavour from the start.

 

\-----

 

Six days later, and Sherlock was still drinking the paste. It had an appearance similar to that of the glue John had used in primary school and smelled like the lab at Barts after a thorough cleaning.

“Sherlock, I really wish you wouldn’t do that. It turns my stomach just watching it.”

“I am aware of that, John. However, I have yet to observe a statistically significant change in homeostatic functioning, and cognitive ability appears to be preserved at pre-serum levels.” Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

“At least you’re still drinking regular fluids.”

“Mmph.” Sherlock had initially tried to pass it off as hydration, but he had kept tea for a strictly sentimental reason: John. This deduction was promptly re-filed from the ‘over my dead body’ indeterminate detention area of his mind palace to the ‘John - do not delete’ file.

John picked up the breakfast dishes – a plate, a fork, two mugs, and a graduated cylinder – and gave Sherlock’s temple a light peck, equally to show affection and gauge his partner’s temperature. 

“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock rebuffed as he deduced what John had done.

John sighed, and started the washing up.

 

\-----

 

Two days on a case, no paste or proper food, and a mile-long foot chase in the rain later, Sherlock collapsed outside of the Met. 

John’s training kicked in and he lunged forward, catching Sherlock halfway into his fall but not before his temple slid against the rough edge of the metal railing. “Lestrade! A little help, here!”

After seeing the detective go down and hearing John’s cry for help, Lestrade ran over and grabbed one of Sherlock’s arms. Between the two of them, they managed to sit Sherlock up against the glass wall, and John leaned down to check his vitals as Sherlock started to come around. 

“We sent the paramedics off already, but we can recall them if he needs it. They should only be a couple minutes out. What do you think?” Lestrade hovered, concerned. 

“He hasn’t banged his head too hard, other than that cut, so a concussion’s out.” John checked Sherlock’s pupils. Equal, and responsive to what sunlight was available on the cloudy day. 

Those eyes darted upwards to meet John’s and Lestrade’s before returning to his doctor’s. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Minor electrolyte imbalance; easily rectified by a shift in supplementation. Can we go back to Baker Street now?”

John looked at Lestrade, who nodded, and led the way to his cruiser. John wasn’t about to turn down a free ride when Sherlock couldn’t complain about it, especially when he was the reason John’s pocket money always evaporated. 

John leaned down to help Sherlock up and muttered to the man under his breath. “That’s it. Sherlock, you’re eating, you’re eating soon, and you’re eating a lot.” 

Once they got back to Baker Street, loathe as he was to admit it, Sherlock knew he needed assistance to get up to their flat. John helped him out of his coat and all the way to the sofa without comment before he marched into their kitchen. They had been out of sugar since the last experiment before the case, and John didn’t trust that nothing had happened to the salt. That was irrelevant, though, as it appeared that Sherlock had used each and every one of the glasses earlier that morning as upturned cells for his latest collection of aphids. John stepped out of the kitchen with a grimace and grabbed the lone banana out of the bowl of apples on his way to the sofa.

“Eat. Now.” John instilled the importance of the request with a firm tone as he pressed the banana into his reclining partner’s open hand. “I’m heading to Antonio’s; it’s quickest. D’you want lamb, or fish?”

“Nigerian? Lamb.”

 

John praised their central location and the jovial restaurant owner, and was back to the flat in fifteen minutes flat. He popped open the trays, set them out, and sat beside his partner.

Sherlock absolutely tore into the lamb, and John couldn’t hold back his smile.

**Author's Note:**

> This songfic was inspired by ["Eat It" by Weird Al Yankovic](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZcJjMnHoIBI).
> 
> The characters included in this work are not in any way my property and all rights remain with their respective owners.
> 
> Thank you to LadyMac111 for filling in as my beta!


End file.
